Rex Stout - Poison à la Carte

“You knew Pyle was dying. You said so.”

“Also my own conclusion. The doctors were still trying to save him.”

Cramer took a breath. He looked at me, saw nothing inspiring, and returned to Wolfe. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. Those three men — the cook, the man that helped him, and the man in the dining room — Fritz Brenner, Felix Courbet, and Zoltan Mahany — were all supplied by you. All close to you. I want to know about them, or at least two of them. I might as well leave Fritz out of it. In the first place, it’s hard to believe that Zoltan doesn’t know who took the first two or three plates or whether one of them came back for a second one, and it’s also hard to believe that Felix doesn’t know who served Pyle.”

“It is indeed,” Wolfe agreed. “They are highly trained men. But they have been questioned.”

“They sure have. It’s also hard to believe that Goodwin didn’t see who served Pyle. He sees everything.”

“Mr. Goodwin is present. Discuss it with him.”

“I have. Now I want to ask your opinion of a theory. I know yours, and I don’t reject it, but there are alternatives. First a fact. In a metal trash container in the kitchen — not a garbage pail — we found a roll of paper, ordinary white paper that had been rolled into a tube, held with tape, smaller at one end. The laboratory has found particles of arsenic inside. The only two fingerprints on it that are any good are Zoltan’s. He says he saw it on the kitchen floor under a table some time after the meal had started, he can’t say exactly when, and he picked it up and dropped it in the container, and his prints are on it because he pinched it to see if there was anything in it.”

Wolfe nodded. “As I surmised. A paper spill.”

“Yeah. I don’t say it kills your theory. She could have shaken it into the cream without leaving prints, and she certainly wouldn’t have dropped it on the floor if there was any chance it had her prints. But it has got Zoltan’s. What’s wrong with the theory that Zoltan poisoned one of the portions and saw that it was taken by a certain one? I’ll answer that myself. There are two things wrong with it. First, Zoltan claims he didn’t know which guest any of the girls were assigned to. But Felix knew, and they could have been in collusion. Second, the girls all deny that Zoltan indicated which plate they were to take, but you know how that is. He could have done it without her knowing it. What else is wrong with it?”

“It’s not only untenable, it’s egregious,” Wolfe declared. “Why, in that case, did one of them come back for another plate?”

“She was confused. Nervous. Dumb.”

“Bosh. Why doesn’t she admit it?”

“Scared.”

“I don’t believe it. I questioned them before you did.” Wolfe waved it away. “Tommyrot, and you know it. My theory is not a theory; it is a reasoned conviction. I hope it is being acted on. I suggested to Mr. Stebbins that he examine their garments to see if some kind of pocket had been made in one of them. She had to have it readily available.”

“He did. They all had pockets. The laboratory has found no trace of arsenic.” Cramer uncrossed his legs. “We’re following up your theory all right; we might even have hit on it ourselves in a week or two. But I wanted to ask you about those men. You know them.”

“I do, yes. But I do not answer for them. They may have a dozen murders on their souls, but they had nothing to do with the death of Mr. Pyle. If you are following up my theory — my conviction, rather — I suppose you have learned the order in which the women took the plates.”

Cramer shook his head. “We have not, and I doubt if we will. All we have is a bunch of contradictions. You had them good and scared before we got to them. We do have the last five, starting with Peggy Choate, who found that Pyle had been served and gave it to you, and then — but you know them. You got that yourself.”

“No. I got those five, but not that they were the last. There might have been others in between.”

“There weren’t. It’s pretty well settled that those five were the last. After Peggy Choate the last four plates were taken by Helen Iacono, Nora Jaret, Carol Annis, and Lucy Morgan. Then that Fern Faber, who had been in the can, but there was no plate for her. It’s the order in which they took them before that, the first seven, that we can’t pry out of them — except the first one, that Marjorie Quinn. You couldn’t either.”

Wolfe turned a palm up. “I was interrupted.”

“You were not. You left them there in a huddle, scared stiff, and went to the dining room to start in on the men. Your own private murder investigation, and to hell with the law. I was surprised to see Goodwin here when I rang the bell just now. I supposed you’d have him out running errands like calling at the agency they got the girls from. Or getting a line on Pyle to find a connection between him and one of them. Unless you’re no longer interested?”

“I’m interested willy-nilly,” Wolfe declared. “As I told the assistant district attorney, it is on my score that a man was poisoned in food prepared by Fritz Brenner. But I do not send Mr. Goodwin on fruitless errands. He is one and you have dozens, and if anything is to be learned at the agency or by inquiry into Mr. Pyle’s associations your army will dig it up. They’re already at it, of course, but if they had started a trail you wouldn’t be here. If I send Mr. Goodwin—”

The doorbell rang and I got up and went to the hall. At the rear the door to the kitchen swung open part way and Fritz poked his head through, saw me, and withdrew. Turning to the front for a look through the panel, I saw that I had exaggerated when I told Wolfe that all twelve of them would be otherwise engaged. At least one wasn’t. There on the stoop was Helen Iacono.

It had sounded to me as if Cramer had about said his say and would soon be moving along, and if he bumped into Helen Iacono in the hall she might be too embarrassed to give me her phone number, if that was what she had come for, so as I opened the door I pressed a finger to my lips and sshh ed at her, and then crooked the finger to motion her in. Her deep dark eyes looked a little startled, but she stepped across the sill, and I shut the door, turned, opened the first door on the left, to the front room, motioned to her to enter, followed, and closed the door.

“What’s the matter?” she whispered.

“Nothing now,” I told her. “This is soundproofed. There’s a police inspector in the office with Mr. Wolfe and I thought you might have had enough of cops for a while. Of course if you want to meet him—”

“I don’t. I want to see Nero Wolfe.”

“Okay, I’ll tell him as soon as the cop goes. Have a seat. It shouldn’t be long.”

There is a connecting door between the front room and the office, but I went around through the hall, and here came Cramer. He was marching by without even the courtesy of a grunt, but I stepped to the front to let him out, and then went to the office and told Wolfe, “I’ve got one of them in the front room. Helen Iacono, the tawny-skinned Hebe who had you but gave her caviar to Kreis. Shall I keep her while I get the rest of them?”

He made a face. “What does she want?”

“To see you.”

He took a breath. “Confound it. Bring her in.”

I went and opened the connecting door, told her to come, and escorted her across to the red leather chair. She was more ornamental in it than Cramer, but not nearly as impressive as she had been at first sight. She was puffy around the eyes and her skin had lost some glow. She told Wolfe she hadn’t had any sleep. She said she had just left the District Attorney’s office, and if she went home her mother would be at her again, and her brothers and sisters would come home from school and make noise, and anyway she had decided she had to see Wolfe. Her mother was old-fashioned and didn’t want her to be an actress. It was beginning to sound as if what she was after was a place to take a nap, but then Wolfe got a word in.